He threw open the door of his sitting-room and entered; the room was in semi-darkness, the only light being a reflected one from the street lamps, and the moon which shone through the unsheltered windows. The furniture looked ghostly in the chintz over-coverings, and the faint gleam of gilded picture-frames and mirrors only added a further touch of unreality. On the writing-table he could just distinguish a pile of letters and newspapers—the accumulation of four weeks' absence; they seemed to him as the hand of civilisation, stretched out across the month of isolation and solitude, which separated him from the world of yesterday and to-day.
Striking a match he lit two of the wax candles in a small girandole; but they served only to make the darkness more apparent, and he was turning impatiently towards his bedroom, still holding the lighted taper, when the sound of quick hurrying feet, coming rapidly up the stone staircase, arrested his attention.
Why these particular sounds should at once arouse surprise and apprehension in his mind, he could not tell; many footsteps passed up and down the staircase in the course of the twenty-four hours, and as a rule he neither heard nor heeded them. But something in these quick agitated steps, with the tap of a light heel on each stair, disturbed him strangely.
The wax vesta burned down to his fingers and went out; and as the red spark vanished the footsteps halted, and Philip could distinctly hear the hurried respiration and quick-caught breath of some one just without his door. No sensation of fear or supernatural alarm overcame him, he stood quite still and waited; and as he thus stood counting these brief moments of suspense, he felt himself to be saying inwardly, that he was not at all surprised, it was only what he had expected—this night visitant—it was what he had come home for, the reason why he dared not linger longer beside the blue lake, in the depths of the keen-scented hemlock forest.
The hurried breathing grew more distinct; an uncertain hand was laid upon the handle of the scarcely closed outer door; there was the click of the catch being pushed hastily back; the rustle of a garment, the quick steps along the short passage, and then a figure detached itself from the enshrouding shadows and stood irresolute upon the threshold of the room.
A figure closely muffled in a long dark cloak, and a shadowy hat, beneath whose wide brim a white face flashed, and two eager eyes looked out, peering into the half lighted obscurity beyond.
It was but half a second the figure stood there, irresolute; then with a swift impulsive gesture it moved forward towards Philip, and as the light from the candles fell full upon the face, Mr. Tremain started, and then advanced quickly.
"Miss Dick!" he exclaimed. "You, and here!"
"Oh, yes," cried that young lady, still breathing very fast and speaking incoherently, her words rushing one on top of the other. "Oh, yes, it is I, and I am so glad to find you! I've been here twice already, each evening since we came back, and the door was always locked. To-night I saw the lights and thought at least I should hear something about you. Oh, Mr. Tremain, I am so glad you have come back at last!"
She stopped and looked at him appealingly, clasping and unclasping her fingers, with nervous impatience.